The Sentiment In The Specialist Registrar
by Marindee
Summary: "When Molly Hooper has trouble with a particularly badly damaged set of remains, she calls for backup in the form of an old friend; Temperance Brennan."
1. Chapter 1

"When Molly Hooper has trouble with a particularly damaged set of remains, she calls for backup in the form of an old friend; Temperance Brennan."

 **A / N: Alright, I've been unbelievably busy with real life issues, so just to make said existence that much more complicated, I'm starting another story. If you are someone who has been following Best Leading Actress, fear not as I do intend to update on it soon. Seeing as I seem to be wholly incapable of writing canonically correct fics for Bones, this, like BLA, is set mid- Han**h season 6. In Sherlock-verse, on the other hand, this is set somewhere after His Last Vow / The Abominable Bride. I'm sure you've had enough of my blathering on, if anyone actually bothers to read long Author's Notes. Also, any Britpicking services anybody might be able to provide would be wonderful; I'm American, and have never been across 'the pond' to visit, so I'm woefully ignorant of British-isms… Okay, okay, I'm done now. Seriously.**

 **Disclaimer: If I owned either Sherlock or Bones, my ride would most certainly not be from before 2000. Alas, I'm stuck with a 1998 Toyota Tacoma with no real shock absorbers to speak of. So disappointing.**

* * *

Molly Hooper wasn't unnerved easily - really, in her line of work,she couldn't afford to be. Apart from the obvious, her association with the Holmes clan had stiffened her backbone; no longer did she wilt when glared at / shouted at (Sherlock's doing), nor was she surprised when she was stolen away in the middle of the night by a bunch of brawny men in tweed (Mycroft's doing), nor was she worried when she was kidnapped to "go find some clothes befitting such a lovely young woman, rather that a seven year old," as she was told the first time it happened (this was usually a joint effort between Violet 'Mummy' Holmes, Mary Watson, and Mycroft's personal assistant, Anthea 'Everyone-knows-that's-not-your-actual-name-but-you're-the-only-person-on-the-planet-that-has-Mycroft-bloody-Holmes-wrapped-around-their-pinky-finger-so-we'll-let-it-go-for-now' Davies*).

As it was, however, St Bartholomew's specialist registrar had felt decidedly off kilter for pretty much the entire month following Jim - _Moriarty's_ apparent return. It was for this reason that she had been logging double- and often triple-shifts, to the point that Mike had threatened to ban her from the mortuary for at least a week (though it was a slight consolation that Jim's true self had, in fact, confirmed her long-standing suspicion that many people from I.T. were criminal masterminds hell-bent on murder and mayhem).

It was because of this throw-yourself-into-your-work-to-the-point-of-exhaustion coping mechanism that Molly was the one on duty when DI Lestrade called the morgue at half one in the morning on account of a rather badly decomposed set of remains. The Detective Inspector's description of the body, regardless of how vague it was because as dedicated to his job he was, Greg was absolutely _not_ going to get anywhere near the corpse, no matter how much Molly pleaded. When it became clear that she was on her own on this one, she called in Jonathan to come take her place, apologizing profusely all the while.

In the forty-five minutes it took her replacement to arrive, Molly set about preparing the lab for its next 'visitor', even though said visitor would be in no state to complain about a pair of forceps here or a petri dish there. At the the mental image of one of the bodies that frequented her autopsy table ordering her to wipe down the countertops, Molly burst into rather raucous laughter, especially for her location at the time. It was then that her coworker finally deigned to make his grand entrance, to find her doubled over, streams of amused tears careening down the sides of her face, and laughing like an absolute lunatic. Oh well. At least she still had that video of his ill-fated attempt at dancing on the lab table the night he'd gotten pissed and decided, in all his intoxicated wisdom, that he'd try and seduce his peer with his not-so-very-stellar moves. Thank goodness for her foresight; she'd had an inkling that she might need blackmailing material at some point in the future. The memory brought even more tears to her eyes, and hearty laughter loud enough to - _ha_ \- wake the dead. Barely able to remain upright, Molly leaned on the ledge of the metal table to catch her breath before fairly skipping out the swinging doors with a jaunty wave thrown over her shoulder.

* * *

The scene that met Molly's eyes when she disembarked from her cab was most certainly not for one with a tender stomach - indeed, Greg was looking a bit green around the gills, probably due to _l'odeur de decomp_ that hung thick and heavy in the air, and Anderson's retching into a nearby storm drain certainly was _not_ helping matters. Luckily, Molly's iron stomach didn't let her down, even when she crouched beside the remains in a way that reminded the man watching her strongly of her 'sister' to perform her cursory examination.

After a few minutes of poking and prodding in and about the body, Molly raised herself to her feet. In a purposefully well-projected voice, the body was declared to belong to a Caucasian male, around thirty-five to forty years old, which Lestrade took down on his notepad, though keeping his sleeved wrist firmly pressed against his nose and mouth hindered the process significantly. For more information, she'd have to get the remains to St Bartholomew's, and Molly said as much to the nauseated silver-haired sleuth.

* * *

In true Brennan-esque fashion, Molly dictated what evidence to collect and how, which caused the observer's mouth to twitch infinitesimally upwards in what might be considered a smirk on someone else's face. Yes, he could see what made Sherlock so willing to place his very life firmly in the palm of her hand, and it wasn't just _sentiment_. He had been sure there had been a better, more valid reason than emotions, and he had proved himself correct in that conclusion. He had been played for a fool that day at the hospital, the only time he'd witnessed to two interacting face to face, in person, and if there was one thing he hated, it was a fool. Yes, Molly Hooper, the paradox; the invisible girl, and the one that mattered most all along.

His evidence secured, the man melted farther into the shadows he was obscured by, leaving nothing but a slight flattened patch of grass where he'd been, and a slight depression in the soil from the tip of a sleek black umbrella.

* * *

(* _I wasn't able to find a canon last name for Anthea, so 'Davies' is my substitute for the time being. If we ever get a canon surname, I'll change it, but for now, Anthea Davies it is_.)

 **A / N 2: Just like BLA, this is unbetaed, so any mistakes are completely and totally my fault, so please point them out in you review (hint, hint :)), not to mention constructive criticism (please!).**


	2. Chapter 2

"When Molly Hooper has trouble with a particularly damaged set of remains, she calls for backup in the form of an old friend; Temperance Brennan."

 **A / N: I know that I haven't updated in a long time, but I do have an excuse. I'm jetlagged and tired and want to sleep. Why, you ask? Well, kiddies, I've recently (yesterday) come back from Japan, where I was doing a Research Residency that I've been working towards for a decade. In that time I was a tad bit too overwhelmed to post wi** **th any regularity, but I'll do my best to from now on. Thanks for your patience!**

 **Disclaimer: Are you really going to make me come out and say it? Really? Fine. I don't actually own _Bones_ or _Sherlock_. Happy now?**

* * *

When Molly had been asked how, exactly, she seemingly knew just how to manage St. Bart's resident hyper-logical genius (for the first time), her response was simply, "I've worked with worse. Would you move that light to the left a tad?" Needless to say, the idea of someone worse than Sherlock had both terrified and fascinated Mike Stamford. Oh, he knew that there was another Holmes, somewhere in the government, from an offhand comment made by his friend John Watson over coffee and walnut rolls – speaking of which, his lunch break was coming up and one of those pastries did sound good – but at what point would his friend have met Whatever-the-other-man's-name-was Holmes? No, this person who was supposedly even more… quirky… than Sherlock must have been from Molly's past.

The sound of his stomach grumbling was almost thunderous in his quiet office. That settled it; it was time to grab some food. He reached into his jacket pocket to make sure he had his wallet and phone, then readjusted his glasses. He was just turning off his desktop when a quiet tapping on the partially opened door announced a new arrival, and the individual he had been pondering ducked her head in with a mildly apologetic smile and faint blush. He returned a grin that was not unkind, and invited her in.

* * *

"Hello, Molly. What can I do for you?" The woman relaxed a bit and opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted by another groan from his digestive system. "Please excuse that; I was just leaving for lunch when you dropped by. Would you like to join me?"

Well, it was about time for her lunch break. What was the harm?"I'd love to – let me put away my lab coat and sign out first, though?"

The man nodded and motioned for her to ' _shoo_ ' with a good-natured flick of his hand. She strode away as fast as her borderline uncommonly short stride would permit, signature high ponytail only just brushing the inferior angles of her scapulae as it swung with each step. This wouldn't take long, hopefully, and then Mike would would get his long-awaited lunch.

A quarter hour after she left, Molly reappeared in the doorway, eyes dancing with equal parts reluctant amusment and fury. "Sorry for taking so long; the new lab tech somehow managed to nearly mistake a body being sent for cremation for one of our murder victims – no idea how – and I only just managed to straighten it out before critical evidence was incinerated. Anyways, ready to go?"

"Yeah, just give me a mo'."

They were mostly quiet on their way to lunch, apart for a few pleasantries, such as inquiries regarding how Mike's daughter's hunt for a suitable university was going and how Molly's cat was doing. Mostly, though, the walk was spent in companionable silence.

The chippy Mike had chosen was busy but not overly so, and the pleasant cacophony of mixed conversations and music in the background was comfortingly similar to the one her father had owned, in the Specialist Registrar's opinion. In fact, if she wasn't mistaken, and she rarely was, the batter was part tempura batter, like she had grown up with. That's it, she decided as she nibbled the crumbs off her thumb and forefinger, I'm coming here for lunch breaks from now on. About halfway through the meal, and all the way through each inane topic Molly could come up with, she proposed her question to Mike.

"... So, I've been working on identifying that skeleton that came in two days ago and haven't gotten anything… Would it be okay if I called in a friend for a consultation? I know she'd be willing to come and help out if I asked, so, yeah…" Her voice thinned until it ended with a faintly nervous chuckle.

Mike wiped his mouth before replying, "Of course. What's this friend's name, though?"

"Temperance Brennan."

" _Temperance_ _Brennan_?"

* * *

"Do you think you might get an autograph? Not for me, but Corinthia loves her books. I mean, she's the author of Bred in the Bone, after all." Molly's lips tilted into a smile at her boss's fast paced chatter. Not that she had much room to talk. She was well known at St. Bartholomew's for her ability to speak for minutes on end, seemingly without taking a breath. As they turned the corner, Molly decided the poor man was jittery enough without having to wait for an answer. With this in mind, she stopped in the middle of the corridor and angled herself towards her friend.

Molly held out her hand in the universal 'stop' hand signal, and, to put Mike out of his misery, promised to do her best. With that, the two said their farewells and parted ways, Mike to finish his paperwork and Molly to call Brennan.

* * *

Her phone was tucked between her elbow and jawline as she took her bone saw to a rather unfortunate motorcyclist's cranium, and was ringing. Well, talking around an autopsy mask was a skill she had mastered in her earliest years of performing whatever gruesome tasks such a mask might be needed for, so no issue there.

* * *

Across the Atlantic, in the office of a young psychologist, the silence was broken by the ringing of a phone. Lance Sweets' eyebrow rose, almost daring either of the partners to make a move to check theirs. Unfortunately, the intimidation attempt was fairly ineffective; he looked not unlike an upset kitten, with black hair mussed from a bad habit of messing with it. Also the fact that, after two rings the ringtone changed to a Florence + the Machine song that was quite familiar to one third of the occupants of the room. The knowledge that within thirty seconds the music would both intensify in volume and switch to whatever new ( and without a doubt, far less tasteful) Top 40's pop song Molly had decided was a fitting punishment for not immediately picking up. Last time, she'd had quite the job explaining to a room full of influential donors to the Jeffersonian why, exactly, some woman's mechanically altered voice was screeching about heavy construction equipment during a fundraising event. Suffice to say, the experience had impressed upon her that there would be nasty consequences in store, should a call from her friend go ignored.

During her recollection, the song had gotten progressively louder, the disembodied voice urging her to make haste on answering her call. Though she was confident in the identity of the caller, she still opened the connection with her customary, "Brennan."

"Bren, I need your help. How fast do you think you can pack your bags?"

"I have work to do here. And I just got back from Indonesia, so I need to catch up here…"

"C'mon. I don't want to, but you know I will. Don't make me do it! Please?"

"No. I'm _not_ ," here she lowered her voice a considerable amount, " setting everything down to visit you."

"Dropping everything. And, _yes_ , you _are_. I have human remains with no cause of death. Actually, I've found a lot of causes of death, that's the problem, so I need you."

"Send me photos. I'm busy right now, so I don't have time to talk."

"I didn't want to have to, but you leave me no choice. Brennan, I'm _cashing one in_."

When Brennan moved to retort, she was met with the strangely ominous dial tone. With her partner and psychologist watching her in confusion, she huffed and stood up. "The hour is up. See you tomorrow, Booth." It seemed she had packing to do.

* * *

 **A / N 2: So, it's obviously been a while since I've written fanfic, so this chapter is something of a comeback. Reviews are only second to coffee! (Because, really, nothing beats coffee. Nothing. Coffee stains paper, rusts scissors, and erodes rock. It also drowns lizards and burns Spock, but we don't talk about that here.)**


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